Chapter Thirty-Five Thera
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Thera
Thera’s suspicion that she had lost all vestige of the Altvar’s favour deepened into certainty when, as she continued to stare at Teryk’s limp, bleeding form, the summit of a nearby mountain coughed out a thick torrent of lava.
The fiery eruption was immediately followed by a cascade of black-grey smoke.
It sped down the peak’s flanks in a manner that seemed to defy nature, quickly shrouding the entire channel in a choking miasma.
The attacking Nihlvarian ships and the disordered line of the queen’s fleet disappeared in an instant.
The crew of the Great Wolf reeled as she too was engulfed a heartbeat later.
Many warriors had discarded their scarfs during combat and suffered for it now.
The smoke was more like a blizzard formed of hot ash, singeing skin and choking throats.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, Thera sank low on the deck boards, eyes forced shut by a gale of heated air.
Her thoughts immediately went to Lynnea, sparking a desperate desire to seek her out, but instinct warned that to do so now risked immediate blindness at best and suffocation at worst. All she could do was huddle and wait for this peculiar storm to end.
The air began to cool when Thera’s lungs felt as if they were about to burst. She risked a quick glimpse of the deck and found the ash fall gone, though it lay thick upon the Great Wolf’s timbers.
She saw several of her warriors cursing as they nursed small burns to exposed skin, but no sign of lasting damage to crew or vessel.
Raising her gaze to the channel beyond the port rail, she wondered if the gods might have favoured them after all.
A strong wind swept from east to west, largely banishing the grey miasma, revealing Nihlvarian ships that had suffered far worse damage.
Most had faltered in their charge and several were adrift, fire licking their rigging.
She watched a number of flaming figures leap into the water in desperation, their screams and struggles brief as the weight of armour or injury bore them under.
A tumult of colliding timbers and raised voices drew Thera’s notice to the narrower channel to the east where, incredibly, battle was raging.
The leading Nihlvarian ships appeared to have escaped the worst of the ash and ploughed directly into the vanguard of her fleet.
Veilwald Ossgrym’s Storm Fist was assailed on both sides.
To her rear, the Silver Hawk sought to force a passage between another pair of red-sailed vessels, the air around her thick with arrows.
“Stand to your oars!” Thera shouted, climbing to her feet and hefting the dreadaxe.
“Port side reverse sweep, starboard at fast stroke! Althsten, steer hard and get this ship turned about! Teylhar!” She scanned the deck for the artisan, calling his name again until an ash-covered shape rose from the deck.
“My queen?” Teylhar said, wincing from a series of thumb-sized scorch marks on his forehead and cheeks. Thera would have preferred to tell him to tend to his wounds but the urgency of battle forbade such kindness.
“Stand to the bolt caster,” she told him. “If I don’t see at least four bolts loosed before we close, I’ll be very disappointed.”
In fact, Teylhar and his crew managed another six bolts by the time the Great Wolf’s heading had been fully reversed.
They scored hits on the Nihlvarian ships still wallowing in the channel, sinking one and causing the others to begin a hasty withdrawal.
Their example was quickly followed by their comrades, many trailing smoke from recently dampened fires as they fled west. With the Great Wolf properly aligned, Thera ordered the oars to fast stroke, but their pace proved irksomely ponderous.
Many oars had been shattered in the collision with the ramming ship, slowing them considerably.
As a consequence, the battle at the head of the queen’s fleet was largely over by the time they reached the scene of combat.
Veilwald Torlund had been quick to bring the hulking Bronze Eagle up to support the Silver Hawk, raining arrows onto the decks of the enemy ships before disgorging a large body of warriors.
One Nihlvarian vessel had already been captured and the remaining two were vainly attempting to disentangle themselves from a failing struggle.
Thera ordered the Great Wolf’s oars stilled and had Teylhar methodically pump bolts into the two retreating ships until they sank.
She gave no order to rescue the dozens of Nihlvarians flailing in the water as the Great Wolf pushed through them to lay alongside the Storm Fist.
The usual jubilation in the aftermath of victory was absent from the Storm Fist’s deck, Thera finding the begrimed faces of the Ironbone’s menda set in abject misery.
Some were openly weeping. Feeling a plummeting chill to her guts, she vaulted the gap to the other vessel’s deck as soon as she could, drawing up short at what she beheld.
The Veilwald lay upon the foredeck surrounded by his most trusted bondsmen.
The ash that covered his beard was streaked in red from the torrent issuing from his mouth.
Thera counted six arrows jutting from his chest, all launched at a range close enough to pierce his leather armour.
“Make way for the queen!” a voice proclaimed as Thera pushed through to Ossgrym’s side. Incredibly, he managed to smile as she knelt to grip his hand.
“To fall in battle… amid the fury… of the Fire Isles, my queen,” he said, baring red teeth in a fierce smile. “To think… the Altvar would… grant me such renown…”
“You deserve more,” Thera told him, the words emerging a choked rush.
“No!” His grip tightened on hers. “I go… to join my children, having taken… vengeance in their name. What more… could I ever ask?” Blood bubbled from his mouth as he attempted to say more, Thera leaning close to hear his final rasp.
“Burn it all down… my queen. They deserve… no less.” He gave a wet gulp, managing just one more word before the bright light that had been Ossgrym Ironbones faded from his eyes. “Aldeyn…”
That evening, they consigned the bodies of the fallen to the water and Thera Speldrenda, Queen of Ascarlia, hailed Aldeyn as the new Veilwald of the Kast Geld.
She named him Aldeyn Styrnkrayl, the Ironheart, partly in honour of his fallen uncle.
Thera knew not whether Ossgrym’s last word had been intended as an endorsement or rejection of his nephew and, as a matter of practicality, chose to believe the former.
The Ironbones had ever been unyielding in his judgements, but she preferred to think he had, when facing his journey to the Halls of Aevnir, found room in his heart for forgiveness.
Her announcement heralded little celebration.
The Ironbones had been greatly respected throughout the fleet and his passing left a grim mood only worsened as news spread regarding the death of the Queen’s Navigator.
Although the Nihlvarian ambush hadn’t claimed a single Ascarlian ship, the fighting and the ash cloud cost well over a hundred lives.
She would have preferred to sail on but the advent of nightfall and the lack of Teryk’s song to guide them made it too hazardous an enterprise.
“I shouldn’t have allowed those Nihlvarians to drown,” she confided to Lynnea that night.
“There must have been a wayfinder among them.” They stood at the Great Wolf’s prow, eyes turned to the long line of ships stretching away along the narrow channel to the east. Thera could almost hear the dark, troubling rumours flying from vessel to vessel.
The Navigator has fallen. Who guides us now?
She expected some consolation from her Tielwald, or at least a word or two of advice, but Lynnea appeared distracted. Her gaze shifted repeatedly between the fleet and the winding maze of channels to the west, brow creasing and smoothing in a sign of inner debate.
“You sense something?” Thera asked her.
It’s too far off, Lynnea replied. And… strange. A creature the like of which I’ve never felt before.
“Can it help us?”
Lynnea gave a tight smile, shaking her head. I doubt it. She paused, Thera feeling the odd prodding sensation that indicated her Tielwald was reading her mood. Skahlvyr is the most able seafarer in this fleet. If any can plot a course through these isles, he can.
Thera’s mind returned to Ossgrym’s red smile. Burn it all down, my queen. They deserve no less. “I hope you’re right. Because I’ll be damned by the Altvar for all my days if we’re turning back.”
Come the morn, Thera eschewed her earlier insistence on leading the fleet to place the Silver Hawk at the head of the column.
Skahlvyr, bruised and tired from battle, had reacted to his new role as pathfinder with creditable fortitude, although Thera suspected him of concealing a far less optimistic estimation of their chances.
Nevertheless, he set to the task with typical dedication, sending out a small flotilla of boats to gauge the depth and course of the channels ahead.
He chose the broadest waterway describing the most westerly route and the fleet resumed its progress, though at a greatly reduced speed.
Four days of creeping through the winding channels of the western Fire Isles followed.
The halts in between bouts of sailing became more prolonged each time as Skahlvyr’s scouts sought out the most advantageous route.
To Thera’s eyes, the gaps between the mountainous islets grew more narrow with each passing day, birthing a longing for the sight of open water that was assuredly shared by all in her fleet.
Finally, at noon on the fifth day, Skahlvyr took a boat from the Silver Hawk to the Great Wolf to confess to his queen that they were lost.
“The fault is mine, my queen,” the seafarer said, head lowered in shame. “I shall accept any punishment…”
“Enough of that, Skahlvyr,” Thera said, shaking her head in irritation. “I need a solution, not contrition.”
“We could turn about,” Ragnalt suggested. “Back to the channel where we lost the Ironbones. Try a different course from there.”
“It won’t work,” Skahlvyr said. “There’s scant room to manoeuvre boats never mind a fleet of this size.
Attempting to retrace our steps will only cause the line to break up.
Our only option is to provision the boats and send them further afield to find a passage to open sea.
In the meantime, the fleet will have to reside here. ”
“Waiting for one of these cursed mountains to spew more fire and ash at us,” Ragnalt scoffed. “I think not.”
He and Skahlvyr continued to bicker while Thera’s gaze drifted to her Tielwald.
She had wandered away from the discussion to stand at the rail, her brow once against riven by the same curious frown, though it appeared more pronounced now.
Sensing Thera’s scrutiny, she turned to her.
I said I doubted she could help us, now I’m not so sure.
She?
Oh yes. She’s closer now. I can sense more. Lynnea paused, eyes narrowing in concern. And she senses me. I don’t think she likes our incursion into her domain.
But you think she might help us?
In order to be rid of us, yes. The alternative would be… unfortunate. Lynnea straightened with resolve. I’ll need a boat. And no, you can’t come with me. The queen leaving the fleet at this juncture would be disastrous.
“Prepare a boat,” Thera snapped, the anger in her tone sufficient to bring Ragnalt and Skahlvyr’s escalating argument to an abrupt halt. “The Tielwald will proceed ahead… alone.”
In fact, Lynnea set off with two companions pulling the oars.
Ahlgrun and Kelvyrn had volunteered, avowing a desire to be gone from the ship where their brother had met his end.
Lynnea was unable to provide even a guess as to how long she would be parted from Thera’s side, so the boat was packed with as many supplies as it could hold without sinking.
Unwilling to wait for the following morn, Lynnea insisted on setting off at dusk.
Thera stood at the rail to watch the small craft make its way to a northerly channel so narrow no ship could hope to navigate.
Your queen has a command, Thera thought, eyes locked on Lynnea’s slender form as the boat began to slide from view.
Return to me. No words came in response, but she felt a pulse of such pure unrestrained affection that she shuddered.
Then the boat disappeared into the channel and Thera steeled herself for what she knew would be an agony of waiting.